Sayaka's Song
by livesruined-bloodshed
Summary: Sayaka-centric; basically follows her through the regular series - will move to Rebellion in later chapters. Implied Kyoko/Sayaka (more in later chapters) and unrequited Sayaka/Kyosuke. Not a songfic, but the title is based on Blink182's "Adam's Song." WARNING: SELF HARM MENTION, SOME SUICIDAL THEMES


It was common that her friends underestimated Sayaka's capacity for love, after everything. Mami and Madoka worried, Homura chuckled, and Kyoko cried over it. She was wary of but not by any means immune to it. Every emotion was intense and electric to her, and love hit her like lightning when it came.

Of course, it came first for the talented boy she'd known from childhood. It pulled her along for years in a giddy dance to which her heart sang along. She was in love with his music, his quiet depth, his eyes, his everything. At eight years old she was plucking petals from cosmos on the street singing, "he loves me; he loves me not." At ten she noticed that, along with talent and sensitivity, he had a body. A ten-year-old's, yes, but exciting to Sayaka nonetheless. She wanted to kiss him in his room rather than on the playground. She wanted him to push her onto the bed. She wanted him to want her.

At twelve, because she already hurt so much, she wanted him to hurt her. And since he wouldn't come near her, she began to hurt herself. It started with scratching her arms with her nails or the end of a paperclip: no blood but a dully satisfying ache. When she finally drew blood it was with the broken-off lip of a diet soda can, and it was beautiful. She delighted in both the sting of the aluminum and the sight of the red liquid coming up in springs against her blue veins.

Soon she was doing it every night. She was anxious to come home because she knew it was waiting for her. At school she pressed her wrist against her leg to bring the feeling back, but it was never quite enough. Watching Kyosuke, watching the world, was agony, and the sensation brought her back to a sweet indifference. So she was happy most of the time, because she knew the real world - full of liars and cheaters and people who didn't love her - would be gone as soon as she got home. Madoka, Hitomi, her teachers, and even Kyosuke were wonderful distractions when she was forced to exist among them, but she was never fully theirs, and they could never fully see her. And of course her parents tried a little, but they couldn't either. So she lived alone in the world of sharp objects and burning wrists, and she was warm and comfortably numb.

At fourteen everything changed with the skidding of black tires against Kyosuke's longed-for body. It left him broken and sullen and Sayaka desperate to be his rock in the raging waters of adolescent tragedy. She immersed herself in the music he loved and found that she didn't have any talent but did genuinely enjoy closing her eyes and imagining that he was the one playing on the CDs, a private concert just for her. Finding the obscure recordings in used music stores sped up her heart rate and brought a triumphant smile to her face. She ached for Kyosuke but - she was ashamed to admit it - relished the thought of taking care of him. She had always seen herself as a sort of protector, in her relationships with Madoka and Hitomi as well as with classmates and the general public, when there was someone to protect. But the happiness she felt was always followed by a shame so deep she had to dig into her own skin to bring herself back.

It was sickening. The sensations that once had calmed her now disgusted her. She knew she could never be a hero like Mami, because a hero would never be so weak as to need to destroy herself to survive. A hero would never falter under such circumstances and take a blade to her wrist just to feel normal. Now that Mami was dead, maybe heroism was impossible to achieve. Maybe all she could do for the rest of her life was screw herself over and, in the hazy hallucination of ever being good enough for Kyosuke, simply screw herself.

Still she brought him the sought-after recordings and watched him closely as he listened, sometimes smiling and sometimes hiding that he was crying. She didn't really understand all of his injuries but knew about the one that hurt him most. She knew he feared he could never perform again. And so, naïvely, she tried to recreate the feeling the music gave him. And he smiled and thanked her until the day he got mad.

When he got mad he slammed his bandaged hand against the CD, and it shattered into shards that drew his blood. She had never realized how awful it was to see a loved one hurt himself.

So she made a contract with Kyubey in exchange for an end to Kyosuke's pain. And in a few days he was healed, out of the hospital, and smiling at Hitomi with a warmth Sayaka had never seen on his face. She found that when she cut her wrists again, they healed almost immediately but left the usual menacing white scars. Must have been something about being a magical girl. Still she found solace in the sting of metal against her tender skin. The night she cried into Madoka's arms outside the hospital, anyone else would have been dead from the blood loss. For the second time that day she regretted her decision. She wanted to be anyone else.

Slashes from the street rat Kyoko Sakura's spear hardly touched her. She fought without passion and cried without relent. She stayed in bed for days before hearing the rude invocation from outside her bedroom window.

"How long are you going to stay up there, idiot?"

She was tired but up for a fight as usual, still livid over Kyoko's malicious threats toward Kyosuke the day before.

"Come here. I want to talk to you." The way her voice softened when their eyes met pissed Sayaka off even further. She ran down the stairs as soon as her uniform was on, a little excited, if she was being honest, for the first time in a while.

"Follow me."

Kyoko's demanding tone was annoying. The nonchalant way she consistently looked over her shoulder and pretended she wasn't watching Sayaka was annoying. It was annoying that she wouldn't explain where they were going. It was annoying that she appeared not to want to fight. Sayaka's entire body tensed with confusion and anger as they neared the empty church. She hated being left in the dark and being pulled around like a dog to foreign territory. She hated Kyoko Sakura.

"This might take a long time. Here, you can eat."

Sayaka caught the apple instinctively but was angry at it for reminding her that she was hungry. She hadn't eaten in a day and a half.

Kyoko Sakura wore unwashed, tattered clothing, had dirty hair, and didn't seem to have any particular residence. "Where did you get this apple?"

The silence that followed was enough. She dropped it, probably a little too forcefully, and was off her feet before it hit the ground.

"Don't fucking waste food."

There was fire in Kyoko's eyes, but it was snuffed the moment they met Sayaka's. "If you do," she snarled, clearly trying her hardest not to lose the malice in her voice, "I'll have to kill you."

She placed Sayaka's body down with an annoying amount of care before stuffing the discarded apple protectively back in her paper bag as if she too had experienced the sting of Sayaka's rejection. When she told it, her story was far from one of love and courage triumphing over all, but it was intriguing. Sayaka felt sorry for the little girl, left alone and suffering, but she wouldn't sink to her level. She wouldn't allow herself to become what tragedy had made of Kyoko Sakura.

"I underestimated you, and I'm sorry."

Kyoko's eyes widened, apparently having forgotten her audience.

"But I won't fight like that. And you can't tell me where you got that food, so I won't eat it."

"But..."

"Why do you suddenly care about me anyway? Doesn't that just go back on what you said?"

"I... Because you're a magical girl!"

Shaking her head, Sayaka walked slowly toward the door. "I won't interfere with you anymore. But if you want to try to kill me again, don't expect me to hold back."

She was numb to the explosion of Kyoko's anger that followed. The cool outside air was a welcome escape from the comically frustrated girl devouring her apple and the light dancing like flames through the stained glass, but she didn't really feel better. All she could think about was the rawness of her wrists and the fact that she, for the first time, didn't feel like opening their skin again.

"I'm going to be lonely, you know."

"Hm?"

Though she had grown apart from Hitomi for obvious reasons, Sayaka rued much more the growing distance between her and Madoka. Madoka sought her out with some kind of uncanny ability when she needed someone, and Sayaka didn't want to run away anymore. So she listened.

"There's something I have to do, Sayaka. And I'm going to go far away. It's going to be lonely." Madoka smiled wistfully, eyes upward. Stars gleamed above the empty street and the two girls on the wooden bench. "Is there something you want, Sayaka?"

"Something I..."

"Anything. Like another wish. Like something you could give up everything for... again."

She shifted in her seat and drew her knees to her chest.

"Give up everything?"

"I could give you what you want, Sayaka, if you want to come with me and help me. I don't know what it's going to be like, but I know it's going to be right."

Somehow Sayaka didn't need answers. Nothing was holding her to this place but the nagging guilt for those she had hurt.

"Can I make it better? Or at least... make it worth it?"

Madoka turned, smiled, and winked, and their world changed. The bench became a seemingly endless row of seats, surrounded by ornate curtains that had been the trees. She could make out a single form on the stage.

"My name is Kyosuke Kamijou. I will be performing 'Ave Maria.'"

Tears escaped her eyes in a thin stream. "Madoka..."

The music brought her back somewhere she couldn't quite put her finger on. When she closed her eyes against the blurring tears, the lights flickered like a flame through stained glass. There was the shadow of someone she barely knew, the clatter of paper dolls on the rotting hardwood floor. And a voice, cold and dejected and alone: "Just when we were starting to be friends..."

She opened her eyes and took a last look at the boy in the center of the stage before looking next to her. Her best friend smiled back.

"Thank you," she whispered. "I just wanted to hear him play again."


End file.
